She Can Kill

by Melinda Leigh

  She dropped the kids and dog at Mrs. Holloway’s house, turned around, and drove back to town. At the inn, she stowed her coat and purse and thoroughly washed her hands before entering the kitchen a solid thirty minutes late.

  Herb stepped away from a chopping block and untied his apron. He tossed it into a hamper and rubbed his hands as if they were painful and stiff.

  “I’m so sorry, Herb.”

  He nodded. “Is everything all right?”

  “Just a flat tire.”

  “You’ve had a tough week.” His blue eyes said he knew more about her situation than she’d admitted. But then, everyone knew everyone else’s business in Westbury. One meal at the diner was more informative than the local news coverage, and Troy was hardly discreet.

  Sarah smiled, but behind her happy face, nerves churned. How long could she keep faking it? Troy was dismantling her life.

  She hustled to catch up on prep. At two thirty, she raced to the police station to sign her statement, then dropped the tire at the auto center. She stayed at work thirty minutes late to square away her paperwork and discuss the following week’s menu with Jacob.

  “I’ll see you on Monday,” Jacob said as he sautéed shallots and bacon.

  “No.” Hating what she needed to say next, Sarah tossed her soiled apron in the hamper with more force than she needed. “I need to switch shifts with someone on Monday.”

  Jacob stopped. His wooden spoon hovered over the pan. “Again?”

  “I have to go to court. There isn’t anything I can do about it.” Helplessness paralyzed her for a few seconds. Getting control over her life was proving impossible. Tension constricted her lungs, making her next breath rasp. Not here. She reeled in her emotions and exhaled hard.

  He frowned. “I’ll cover your shift.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said. Frustration curled her hands into fists tight enough to feel the bite of her fingernails in her palms. Damn Troy. If his interference continued, she’d lose her job. It didn’t matter how hard she worked if she wasn’t reliable. She needed that restraining order. Not to keep Troy away. No piece of paper could do that. But the order would allow the police to arrest him for violations. He wouldn’t be able to stand outside her house or leave nasty text messages without experiencing consequences, and the cameras Sean was installing would give her evidence if he showed up at the house again.

  With a shiver, she remembered the tone of his last message. He didn’t seem to be overly concerned with repercussions.

  Resigned, Sarah drove to the auto center. The manager rang up her charges while a mechanic swapped her spare for the repaired tire.

  “What caused the flat tire?” she asked as she swiped her credit card.

  “Nail,” he said. “Happens all the time.”

  Her tire could have picked up a nail at any time. Troy could be innocent. Though the doubt in the bottom of Sarah’s gut didn’t let her believe it. She vowed to clean the garage over the weekend so she could park her van inside.

  She and the girls were having dinner with Mike and Rachel, so she went home for a quick shower and fresh clothes. Since Mrs. Holloway’s house was just down the road from the farm, there was no point driving out there twice. She pulled into her driveway. A blue van sat at the curb at the edge of her property line. It was a commercial-type vehicle, with no windows on the sides. Rust laced the back fender and bumper. Had it been there this morning? Sarah got out of her minivan and scanned her neighbors’ homes. Was someone getting work done on their house? On a Saturday? Sarah’s next-door neighbor on that side was on a fixed income. Sarah’s friend, Kenzie Newell, lived in the house kitty-corner. She hadn’t mentioned anything when Sarah spoke to her the day before.

  Kenzie waved from her mailbox, then started across the street. She gave the van a suspicious look. “Do you know who owns that van?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No.”

  “Me either. It’s been parked there all day.” Kenzie wrapped her thick, knee-length cardigan tighter around her body.

  “Has it? This morning was such a blur, I didn’t notice.” Sarah walked closer. “Maybe someone on the street has company.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Hill?” Kenzie nodded toward the house across the street from Sarah, Kenzie’s next-door neighbor.

  “Mrs. Hill’s male friends drive nicer cars.” Sarah laughed. Their mature neighbor had a reputation as a man-killer. “She could be getting something done in her house, but it doesn’t look like she’s home.”

  Something about the van set her nerves on edge.

  Clutching her mail in one fist, Kenzie hugged her waist. Dark circles underscored her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Sarah asked.

  “Delaney is sick. I’m tired and a little jumpy,” Kenzie admitted. “I wish Tim wasn’t away.”

  “You’ve been alone since the robbery?” Guilt swamped Sarah. She knew Kenzie’s husband traveled. She should have checked on her neighbor.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re welcome to stay with us tonight. I’m running out to my sister’s house for dinner, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be OK.” Kenzie turned back to the van. “What is that on the door?”

  A dark, red-brown substance was crusted on the driver’s door, around the door handle. Sarah stepped back.

  “Rust?” But as she answered, she knew she was wrong. Fear gathered beneath her sternum, pressuring her lungs. Her breathing grew tight. Colored lights danced in her vision.

  “No.” The color drained from Kenzie’s face. “It’s blood.”

  “It can’t be.” Sarah walked to the back of the van. More brown-red smeared the handle on the rear door. Without touching the vehicle, she shielded her eyes and peered through the back window.

  No! She squeezed her eyelids shut and reopened them. Oh, dear God.

  “What is it?” Kenzie stepped up next to Sarah.

  “Don’t look.” Sarah tried to block her. Kenzie didn’t need to see what was inside the van.

  But she was too late. Kenzie’s eyes rolled back in her head. She pitched forward as she uttered two breathless words. “They’re dead.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mike parked in front of his house in town, angling his SUV between Ethan’s cruiser and the medical examiner’s van. Crime scene tape cordoned off a rectangle at the curb, where a blue utility van was parked. The bumper was rusted, and the first letter on the license plate was a D. The rear doors hung open. A few yards in front of the van, Ethan wrote on a clipboard.

  Mike got out of the car and walked over to Ethan. “Where’s Sarah?”

  Ethan pointed toward a white house kitty-corner to Sarah’s. “They went to Kenzie Newell’s house. Mrs. Newell’s children were there. She was pretty upset.”

  “Did you run the van’s plates?” Mike asked.

  “I did. The van is registered to a Jerome Black,” Ethan said. “Twenty-five years old. The address on the vehicle registration is an apartment in Scranton.” Scranton was twenty minutes away.

  Mike approached the van. The faint odor of decay wafted from the vehicle. “How the hell did two bodies sit in a van all day without anyone noticing?”

  “Neighbors thought it was a contractor,” Ethan said. “Nobody looked inside, and before I opened the back, you couldn’t smell anything.”

  “Hi, Mike,” the medical examiner, Gregory Caldwell, called over his shoulder. In his coveralls and gloves, Greg was leaning into the open rear door. His “tool kit” sat on the ground next to his feet. An assistant was snapping photos of the inside of the van.

  “Greg.” Mike nodded. “What’s the status of the county forensics team?”

  “On the way,” Ethan said. “I called Pete too. Thought we might need some help.”

  The ME’s assistant stepped back. Greg snapped fitted booti
es over his shoes and carefully climbed into the van. Crouching, he picked his way to the bodies with deliberate steps. The bodies appeared to have been tossed without care. Greg stopped even with the victims’ hips and squatted. “I see two gunshot wounds in each chest. Mike, put aside your phobia of all things medical and come over here.”

  Mike sighed. One panic attack in the ER years ago, and he would never live it down. Though Greg was right. Mike had no desire to get closer to the bodies or the medical examiner, but he steeled himself and walked closer. The men were lying on their backs, arms and legs askew. Despite the beginning-to-bloat facial features, Mike could see the corpse on the left had facial damage. A sweet, metallic odor wafted from the van, like hamburger meat left in the fridge a few days too long.

  Mike scanned the van’s interior. The bodies lay on a bed of empty food containers, drug paraphernalia, blankets, pillows, and dirty clothing. “Looks like they spent a lot of time in the van. Maybe lived in it.” He leaned out of the van. “Ethan, call the landlord at the apartment complex. See if Jerome was still living there.”

  “OK, Chief.” Ethan went to his car.

  Mike turned back to the ME. “Any idea how long they’ve been dead?”

  “Not yet. I just got here. This is CSI, not Medium.” Greg grasped the closest arm and moved it slightly, then glanced at the notes on his clipboard. “Rigor has come and gone.” Rigor mortis, the port-mortem stiffening of muscles, usually passed in about thirty-six hours at room temperature. “If the van’s been outside, cool temperatures over the past few days would have slowed decay considerably.”

  “This appears to be the van driven away from the convenience store robbery. The victim on the left has some facial damage. Can you check for a broken right wrist on the second body?”

  Greg lifted the second corpse’s hand and examined the wrist. “I’ll need X-rays to confirm, but I’d say yes.”

  “Then for now, I’m proceeding on the hypothesis that these are the robbers. We know they were alive Tuesday evening,” Mike said. “And their clothing appears to be the same as in the store’s surveillance video. The van matches the witness’s description. Could they have been dead since then?”

  “Four days?” Greg considered. “It’s possible. They’ve been dead at least two days, probably longer.”

  Greg took a scalpel from his kit. Positioning himself next to the closest victim’s torso, he made a cut in the shirt. Checking the skin beneath, he made a small incision in the upper abdomen. Mike looked away, but he knew the ME was sliding his thermometer into the corpse to take the body’s temperature directly from the liver. Greg read the thermometer, then made a note on his clipboard.

  “When will you do the autopsies?” Mike asked.

  “I suppose Monday isn’t fast enough for you.”

  “Sooner would be better. I’d really like to know what’s going on around here.”

  “OK. If I can get an autopsy assistant in tomorrow, I’ll do it then. No promises, though. Tomorrow is Sunday. I might have to bribe someone.”

  “I appreciate it.” Mike turned to Ethan as he returned from his patrol car. “Were the van’s doors locked?”

  “No, and the keys were in the ignition,” Ethan said. “No answer at the apartment complex. I left a message.”

  Mike scanned the street. His gaze stopped on his house. Too bad Sean hadn’t installed the cameras on Sarah’s house yet.

  A crime scene van rolled onto the scene. Mike and Ethan backed away as two navy-jumpsuited techs carried their kits to the van. Leaving Greg and the forensic crew to collect evidence, Mike went in search of Sarah. Who had killed the two robbers? And why had their bodies been left outside her house? Sarah had found the bodies. Sarah had a relationship with Cristan Rojas, who’d had a violent encounter with the two dead men. Or was this meant for Kenzie Newell? Had Cristan or someone else killed the men and left them as a sick gift for Kenzie?

  After he talked to Sarah and Kenzie, Mike was going to pay Cristan a visit and find out where he’d been the night before. Kenzie had to be the reason the bodies had been left here. Mike couldn’t fathom a connection between Sarah and the dead men.

  Except for Cristan, who seemed to be the hub in this particular crime wheel.

  Lieutenant Pete Winters, Mike’s second-in-command, rolled up in his cruiser.

  “Sorry about canceling your day off,” Mike said.

  Pete climbed out of the vehicle. His bulldog face creased. “My wife is hosting her book club tonight. I’d rather question witnesses or babysit dead bodies. Where do you want me to begin?”

  Mike pointed to the crowd that had gathered in a driveway. “Start taking statements. This is a small, nosy neighborhood. Someone saw something. I was here at nine o’clock last night. The van wasn’t there, so it must have been left after that.”

  “Got it.” Pete headed for the gawkers.

  Leaving Ethan with the van, Mike turned to study the street. The afternoon was cold, but the sun warmed the top of his head. Mike recognized everyone. He’d spent part of his childhood in the house, and his mother had left it to him when she died. He’d lived there alone for the last decade. He knew most of the residents who lived on the surrounding blocks, except for Kenzie Newell. She and her husband hadn’t lived on the street long before he’d moved in with Rachel and turned his house over to Sarah.

  A white sedan approached with obvious caution and pulled into the driveway of the small blue house directly across the street. Mike started toward the woman getting out of her car. Mrs. Hill had the best view of the van and Sarah’s house. The trunk of the sedan popped open, and Mrs. Hill rounded her car to remove a canvas grocery bag.

  A divorced sixty-year-old, Mrs. Hill had retired from selling real estate several years ago but still dressed every day as if heading off to work. Today’s slim black slacks, white blouse, and wool trench coat showed off a trim figure that belied her age.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hill.” Mike stopped next to her car. “Can I carry these in for you?”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  Mike hefted a canvas tote full of canned cat food and a twenty-pound plastic container of litter.

  Unlocking her door, she led him into the foyer. “How are you?” Her gaze swept his body from bottom to top. “You look great. Rachel Parker must agree with you.”

  He flushed at her close appraisal. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She tilted her head. Beneath a short cap of blond hair, her clear brown eyes flickered to the street over his shoulder, then returned to study his face. “But you’re not here for a social call, are you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Her gaze flickered to the medical examiner’s vehicle. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

  He shut the door behind him and followed her into a bright kitchen decorated in shades of gray.

  “You can leave those by the pantry.” She set her grocery bag on the black granite counter.

  Mike set the bags down.

  “Tea?” She lit the burner under a kettle on the stove.

  “No, thank you.” Mike took a seat at the kitchen island.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “There are two dead bodies inside that van.”

  She paused, her hand on an upper cabinet. “Well, that’s unexpected.”

  “It was,” he agreed. “Did you notice that van on the street?”

  “Yes.” She took a delicate white cup from a cabinet and tossed a tea bag into it. “I saw it when I left to run errands after lunch. I assumed it was a repairman of some sort.”

  “Were you home last night?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I had a date.”

  Must have been some date. From the years he’d lived across the street, he knew she had an active social life. Mike had watched many men leave her house in the early morning hours. “What time did you go
out?”

  She toyed with a long strand of black pearls around her neck. “Oh, I didn’t leave. Howard came here for dinner around seven.”

  Mike had been at Sarah’s house at nine o’clock. The van wasn’t there then. “So you didn’t see any vehicles that didn’t belong on the street after nine?”

  “Honey, by nine o’clock, we were too busy to look out the window.” Mrs. Hill wasn’t known for her discretion.

  Mike felt the blush heat his face. “Do you know Sarah Mitchell?”

  “Yes. She has the most adorable little girls. If my son doesn’t grow up soon, I won’t see grandchildren before I’m dead. Can you believe he’s almost forty and doesn’t even have a steady girl? He says he’s afraid of commitment. What a crock. He’s just lazy.”

  Mike steered her back on track. “What about earlier, say about eight o’clock? Did you see a pickup truck that didn’t belong on the street?”

  Mrs. Hill raised her eyebrows and grinned at him as if amused by his discomfort. Then she sobered. “A pickup truck? Like the one Sarah’s asshole of an ex drives?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t see it last night, but that son of a bitch has been all over this block for the last couple of weeks.”

  “Do you remember any specific times?”

  Propping one hand on her hip, she hummed. Her chin dropped, and her fingers twirled a pearl for a few seconds. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “If you think of anything, give me a call.” Mike offered her a business card.

  She waved it off. “Honey, I already have your number.”

  Kenzie Newell’s house was next in line. Knowing she had small children, Mike knocked instead of ringing the bell. She opened the door, clutching a child’s stuffed kitten in front of her body. “Chief O’Connell.”

  “Hi, Kenzie. Can we talk?” he asked.

  Her head bobbed in a tight nod. “Come in.”

  She led him to a small, warm kitchen. Sarah sat at the round, oak table. In the high chair next to her, a flush faced toddler played with a bowl of Cheerios. Through a doorway, he could see a little girl of about five staring at a cartoon on the television.